The Ballad of Hugo Stiglitz and Aldo Raine
by Nariel
Summary: 1941.The Basterds arrive in France. Hugo Stiglitz, bitter, smarting from betrayal,finds an unexpected measure of peace with them, despite the lack of welcome. Aldo takes it upon himself to fix him, because a broken gun is dangerous on both ends. pre-slash
1. Prologue

Dedicated to Steve, my very perceptive anonymous reviewer who discovered my dirty thoughts in The Basterds' Epitaph. All the porn henceforth, every impassioned cock-thrust, every brutal, sloppy, man-lovin' kiss, is all for you. And pray that QT does not find out about slash. He is crazy enough to put it in a movie...  
EDIT: Quentin Tarantino DID find out about the slash. His comment: "Donny is a pitcher, not a catcher." Eli Roth, who told him about the "S&M porn on livejournal", agrees. Far be it from me to contradict the Master.

SLASH WARNING IS WARNED AND WILL NOT BE WARNED AGAIN. Very bad words are used.

Disclaimer: QT is God. As we hearken to his Word, meaning goin' to the movies, we write our Gospels from within our souls... being geeky nutters and cheerfully raping "the canon". Just like 2000 years ago, eh?

Rating: PG-13 so far.

Thanks: Grrrrazie to LoveAndCoughDrops for beta reading. No thanks to Linndechir for distracting me with Landa/Hellstrom.

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**T****he Ballad of Hugo Stiglitz and Aldo Raine**

Spring 1941, a clouded day.

A small plane above Nazi-occupied France.

-/-

"Lieutenant, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're kinda pale."

"Shut up, Donny."

"No, really."

"I said, shut the fuck up, Sarge."

"No shame in being uncomfy in a tin box five miles above a Nazi army, _sir_..."

Aldo growled and kicked him, ending the conversation.

His breath came fast between clenched teeth, and try as he might, he couldn't forget that they were flying. In air. It wasn't right, people flying. It wasn't fuckin' _American_. Looking down, he'd see clouds under his feet. And his feet tingled, already awaiting the sensation of turning into bloody mush five miles below. He hated flying. Hated it more than goddamn Hitler himself – right now, anyway.

Trust Donny to fucking notice.

He'd kill the sonuvabitch, if he dared to laugh. No, better.

Donny's wide mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. He was tucked in tight on the wooden bench between the Lieutenant and young Utivich. Lt. Raine was stuck between Donny and the wall. He had thought it would provide him with a sense of stability and comfort, but all he could think of were that three inches of steel was all that was between him and five miles of air. Damn it.

Donny snorted a little, like he always did when he was about to laugh. He could probably feel Aldo shivering.

One thing left to do, then. Aldo summoned his best commanding voice.

"Sergeant?" Hm, not bad.

"Sir?" Donny was definitely smirking, goddam smug kike bastard. Raine leaned over to whisper into his ear, close enough for Donny's hair to tickle his nose.

"You wanna have a laugh at my expense, you little cocksucker, do it. And I'll tell 'em your first name. Your REAL first name."

The blood drained from Donny's face. "You wouldn't. Fuck no!"

Aldo smirked. "Language... Ishmael."

Donny whimpered silently, even though the whisper had been almost too quiet for him to hear over the roar of the plane. The Lieutenant's mouth was almost covering his ear, to ensure nobody else heard. No sense in wasting such a trump card. He sighed in relief when Aldo leaned back, triumphant grin and all. But the Lieutenant's merriment was short-lived and lasted for exactly ten seconds, until his eyes fell on the parachutes.

They were supposed to _jump_ off an _aeroplane_. At least, he wasn't the only one with shaky knees about this.

When the time came though, it was as if his nerves had turned off, overloaded. And the jump was the last thing that stood between him and killin' Nazis. Now, either he would die, horribly but quickly... or he'd live, which had a pretty good chance of happening. He could only hang on and pray.

The responsibilities of a commanding officer, making decisions, waited below.

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All and any comments appreciated.

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	2. chapter 1,1

Disclaimer: is disclaimed.

Rating: PG-13 edging towards R. Tarantino-esque violence.

* * *

The Ballad of Hugo Stiglitz and Aldo Raine

Fall 1941, another cloudy day.

-/-

"... came 'ere ter see if you wanna go pro," drawled the shadowy figure, obnoxiously American. No Englishman talked like he was stretching vowels on a rack over a fire, then stamped them into a ball, THEN chewed on them for an hour. Real Americans in the middle of nowhere in Nazi-occupied France?

-/-

Four hours ago. Blood-encrusted bandages are being peeled off Hugo Stiglitz's back. The young sturmmann doing it is nervous, his hands tremble, too-careful here, pulling too harshly there. His compatriot is pointing a rifle at the prisoner's head. It was trembling too, and Hugo briefly considers moving suddenly, inviting death. Then he remembered Johan Seghers. Ruddy-faced half-breed of twenty-two, resisting arrest. They shot after him, to make him stop running. He didn't. What happened was that a stray bullet had lodged in his head and for two days, his screams rang through the basement, to the adjacent barracks where his troops slept, keeping them awake, until a doctor put the brain-damaged boy out of his misery. The oppressively silent night that had followed had weighed on them heavier still.

The pain must have been worse, much worse than the whip on his back or that it had been _personal_. This primal fear kept Hugo seated on his stool, even attempting an encouraging smile to the new kid.

Must have looked scary.

"Don't p-patronize me, p-prisoner!" The boy with the rifle stuttered, in German. The other, dabbing his back with a wet bandage to remove old ones, froze like a rabbit in a snake's sights.

"I'm not convicted yet, kid, it's still Sergeant Stiglitz to you." Hugo said, showing teeth. It was not a nice smile. "That'll be in Berlin. Until then, you ought to listen to what I have to say."

The boy's knuckles around his rifle were white.

"Just giving you a hint. Aim for the chest..." he said, carefully taking hold of the barrel and bumping it into his chest, "or abdomen. Biggest areas, hardest to miss. If I were to do anything, this is the place to aim at. And take a step back, or I'll do this."

Dramatic pause.

Then he pulled hard on the rifle, forward and past himself in a practiced move. He'd counted on the second, shier one, to remain frozen in terror and be a good target for a kick, but even the worst-case scenario never had the second one smashing the bottle with disinfectant over his head. His eyes burnt, he realized, sinking dazedly through the floor between two loose shots from the rifle. Both missed, but boots found a target, and kicked particularly viciously at his back, splitting the thin, mending skin. He went down in a huddle, trying to minimize the damage, amidst shrieks and yells of _traitor_ and general obscenities. The soldiers left him, beaten black and blue, with a final jaw-cracking hit from the rifle handle as the lock ground closed. The below-zero cold air got to him soon and he dressed, reluctantly, slowly, coarse cloth rubbing his less recent injuries like acid sandpaper. He sat on the cot and tried not to move under baleful glares.

He couldn't stop thinking as easily.

Tense, painful minutes stretched into hours, and when the oppressive silence grew to be too much, it was broken by gunshots and screams.

Chapter One

GOING PRO

Rain had fallen. It upset the ground in the forest, sweeping away piled-up earth, exposing the thick cable climbing through the ground. Private First Class Zimmerman discovered the winding length slithering through the woods when he was taking a leak, and checked the map immediately. No near settlement lay in the direction, and the cable was brand new and functioning. They tracked it down to the yellow-brick bunker, swung loops of wire around the sentries' necks and thought _bingo_, as the Germans drowned in their blood.

Then, taking the bodies, they retreated back into the woods. The Lieutenant briefed them, while the dead were quickly stripped of their regalia, and Wicki and Kagan slipped on the uniforms.

"Now, there're two ways we can do this. We can rush in and shoot wildly in this rats' warren, or we can drop some grenades down and wait for the Krauts to come out into our fire. Downside Plan B – if our new friend is down there, he might not like the weather much. Downside Plan A – I don't like fighting underground, myself. Now if there are only a few Krauts down there, that ain't no problem. But if there's half a legion, there is. An' since I don't like guessin', our Gerry genius can go 'n check it out. Are you in, Corp?"

"Yes, Sir," said the Corporal calmly. Cpl. Wicki was always calm, probably the calmest Corporal in the US-Army. Never raised his voice, not even when gunning down a bunch of Nazis. Austrian-born, his language skills were invaluable in the small unit.

"Superrrb. Get your kosher ass down there, and see that'cha bring it back. Actually, nevermind your ugly ass. Tongue'n ears will suffice."

"Yessir." They've had months to get used to their Lieutenant's informality, and the competition for Most-Jewish-Jokes-In-A-Day was on. "Permission to bring back a better German ass, Lieutenant, sir?"

Raine grinned crookedly. "You know just what kinda ass I want, don'tcha. That Natsee-killin' amateur never left the area, or the Rezzy-stones frogs woulda gave a croak in our general direction. Off you go. Naw," he said, turning his back onto the departing Wicki, "our scalp-bearers have got a good strong base here. Not if we have sumthan' to say to that, though – and even if our future buddy ain't holed up in there, it'll still mean dead Natsees."

"Sir, yes sir!" they chorused quietly, sharing bloodthirsty and righteous grins.

"That's mah boys."

They watched Wicki disappear into the yellow-brick tunnel, while Kagan took up the dead guards' post and tried his best to look German, listening to the echoing steps retreating, then closing again. The darkness spit Wicki back out, and he made a sign to the woods. Four.

Slowly, Aldo's men crept out of the trees' shelter, Donny and Hirschberg, toting their MGs, rushing ahead past Wicki.

It was over in seconds, and a new silence spread in the yellow-brick cavern, a silence of death.

-/-

Steps, splashing in spilled blood. New faces, grimy, stubbly, skeptical and very determined.

Hugo Stiglitz sucked in the smoke of the old crumpled cigarette he had discovered in a pocket, and breathed it out again. Stared. And nodded twice.

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Reviews will be lovingly printed out, framed, fawned over and hung on wall with accompanying mood lighting. They also motivate me to write more, nudge nudge?


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